A/N: Thanks to everyone who left reviews and favourites! Sorry this took so long, I hope you enjoy! Also, a massive thank you to teztime for betaing for me.

The dead nothingness of stasis tears away in one stinging, burning flood of overwhelming sensation.

Battle routines boot first, restoring systems to the last logged state. Data screams through Sunstreaker's processor: detected energy signatures, noise, tactile information and damage reports.

It takes him two nanokliks to come fully online. Unauthorised barely-legal modifications are rarely pleasant, but Sunstreaker has always figured it's better to be alive and uncomfortable than dead. So far he's been right.

He instantly knows three things: he is lying down, in a compromised position; his body is pressed over an unconscious frame, marked as an ally in his logs; someone is leaning over him.

Systems dictate only two immediate needs – protect the unconscious ally and kill the unknown threat.

Sunstreaker surges up, optics blazing online, and catches the wrist of the mech reaching for him. His other hand locks against the aggressor's shoulder mounting, ready to pull the limb from its bearings. A shouted curse gives him pause as his interpersonal systems receive a barrage of medic identifiers and stand-down commands.

As he begins to process the red cross of a medic half hidden beneath his splayed fingers, his battle readiness trickles away to nothing. Finally his optics focus on the face of the Autobot Chief Medical Officer.

Slag.

"Get the frag off me, you walking spare-part store!" Ratchet snaps, yanking his wrist from a suddenly slack grip. He gives the yellow frontliner a sharp shove in the chest. "And don't think I won't haul you down to my office for a full check on those unsanctioned boot mods if you touch me again."

With a grimace Sunstreaker eases back, tuning out the tongue-lashing as he sends an enquiring ping, packaged with location data, to his twin. Still twitchy, he stays tensed and alert, battle protocols still streaming through his helm as he scans their immediate area for any real threats. He assumes, though, the situation is in hand if Ratchet is alone and prowling the ship looking for casualties rather than attending wounded in the medibay.

The sharp pain of a wrench ramming into the side of his knee, tempers his relief at an affirmative ping back from Sideswipe. Looking down at the medic's crouched white form with more than a small amount of irritation, Sunstreaker defiantly meets the CMO's deadpan gaze. Ratchet sighs and says in a forcibly calm voice, "I need you to stop crouching over Bluestreak like a turbofox on a kill so that I can see him properly."

Sunstreaker jerks back, suddenly all too aware that the prone grey form at his feet isn't groaning and getting up, isn't even booting. He stares in shock, assessing the damage on the Praxian frame: one door hanging by a single hinge and the oddly bright colour of dried energon standing out starkly against dark plate, but nothing bad enough to offline a mech.

Surely?

Ratchet must read his face like a book, because he pushes more gently at the previously abused knee and turns his attention to Bluestreak's prone frame. "He'll be fine. I just have to dampen his neural net or he'll wake up screaming." A rather more insistent shove has the yellow warrior taking several steps back to clear room. "Some mechs have the good sense not to get some backalley hack to install illegal boot enhancers! Your processor is probably crawling with malware - and who is it that has to comb through lines of code when your port covers start popping open every ten seconds?"

Sunstreaker turns his audio input down, tuning out the now quiet murmur of Ratchet's ranting; there are several rumours among the Autobot ranks that their CMO actually works better while cursing out a handy soldier or two.

The sound of footsteps pounding towards them draws his optics away from the sight of Ratchet prying open a port in the middle of Bluestreak's back at the sound. Taking up a guard position in front of Ratchet and Bluestreak, Sunstreaker stares in the direction of the sound, but his brother's spark signature registers even before he catches a glimpse of red plate.

A niggling question pushes itself to the forefront of his attention and he half turns, looking back across his shoulder pauldron at the working medic and dialling his audials back up.

"We crashed?"

Ratchet doesn't look up from his work as his fingers dart around the remaining hinge of Bluestreak's looks like he's just taking the whole door off.

"The Ark crash landed..." Ratchet speaks slowly as he wriggled the buckled door free from its mounting, his attention on the task at hand, "and the whole ship was stasis locked for... a while."

-o0o-

"A while" turns out to be forty-eight thousand vorns: four million of this planet's solar-cycles, according to Perceptor. Sunstreaker hadn't asked, but he'd been enthusiastically informed anyway.

A pit-damned organic planet, and they're stuck on it. No contact with Cybertron or the rest of the Autobot army - if either even exist after almost fifty thousand vorns. The organics aren't even regular sized organics; these ones are small and squishy and everywhere. As if the organics weren't bad enough, Megatron and his troop of Decepticons are stranded on the same planet and determined to finish what they'd started. The low energon rations mandated by the Prime's refusal to let them mine the planet is the final twist in the wound.

And Prowl insists on running training exercises at least once a decaorn.

This is one of his apparent favourites, christened "King of the Castle" by Jazz after some inane organic youngling game. The fact it's one of Prowl's favourites means it's excruciatingly unpleasant for everyone else involved.

King of the Castle hinges on the idea that a good sniper is vitally important in remedying their guerrilla stalemate. Prowl believes Bluestreak is an asset they cannot afford to lose, and everyone on base should know how to support him in the field.

Gameplay is simple; Bluestreak is posted up somewhere nice and high and given as many rifle taser rounds as can be stuffed into subspace. The rounds release tiny barbed claws that hook onto armour and crackle circuit-frying pain at the site of injury, making them a good non-lethal simulation of plasma fire. One lucky Autobot gets to accompany the sniper and is tasked with calling out targeting information and watching Bluestreak's back.

Everyone else has to try and get close enough to capture them

Today Sunstreaker is Bluestreak's spotter, which makes the game even more unpleasant than usual because anyone who does manage to weave their way through the punishingly accurate sniper fire and climb up to their position then has to go hand-to-hand with the yellow warrior. The pan to the proverbial fire, though, was that any time Prowl felt the assault team weren't playing enthusiastically enough he had a nasty habit of handing out team-wide punishment detail.

There are more than a few murmurs about just handing themselves over to the Decepticons and begging Megatron for a merciful death, and they're only mostly joking.

Everyone is familiar with the imaginary three-hundred-and-sixty degree circle used in the exercise. It's standard combat practice used by frontliners and commanders alike; the humans even have a version of it that uses a timepiece. Any Cybertronian can apply the concept with pinpoint accuracy; what's hard is applying it with pinpoint accuracy for someone else.

During King of the Castle Bluestreak is under orders to fire wherever his spotter tells him to, immediately and without question, meaning a miscalculation on the spotter's part can result in a wildly inaccurate shot. It's irritatingly pedantic on Prowl's part, but if there are two words to describe the Autobot Third then those words are definitely "irritatingly pedantic", although they are probably not the first ones that spring to the mind of the average soldier.

Scowling in concentration, Sunstreaker watches the desert plains for signs of movement. They've been sitting in the sun long enough that the heat is starting to register on his sensors, and hot air shimmers as it rises over Bluestreak's plate. Sand blows on the soft breeze and he can feel the tiny particles beginning to work their way into his joints. He scowls again.

Sunstreaker sits with his back propped against a stone jutting from their little hill; across from him, Bluestreak lies in perfect stillness. His optics are bright as he watches over the monotonous sand and he clasps his rifle tightly in his hands.

It's eerie how quiet and still Bluestreak is in the field: a stark contrast to the vibrant and talkative mech Sunstreaker has grown used to, grown to like. His dark plate seems to sink into their surroundings despite the bright sun, and the lack of chatter on the weather or rocks or tufts of grass around them is disconcerting.

The first time Sunstreaker saw the sniper in action was on a falling ship with Decepticons swarming them on every side; the change had struck him but he had been too preoccupied to fully appreciate it.

But he appreciates it now. Sunstreaker recognises perfection when he sees it. Slowly his surprise at the strut-deep stillness falls away beneath the weight of admiration.

Bluestreak is just as deadly as Sunstreaker, but in all the ways Sunstreaker is not; silent, distant, calm and collected and in control. Every movement the sniper makes is calculated and precise, nothing like the berserker rage the yellow frontliner falls into on the battlefield. Sunstreaker becomes a screaming, destructive demon in combat, but Bluestreak becomes a silent, vengeful god.

Sunstreaker had torn the Decepticon limb from limb who had dared to lay hands on something so beautiful.

Bluestreak shifts and presses his optic to the scope of his rifle, jarring Sunstreaker from his reverie.

"Bumblebee on my three-five," Bluestreak warns. Their only communication the whole exercise has been these clipped snippets of information.

Well Sunstreaker has never been overly fond of banter while on missions.

"Do you have a clear shot?"

A nanoklik passes and then, "No."

He squints in the direction indicated as Bluestreak lines up. Sunstreaker can just pick out a bright yellow shape against the dull yellow of the plains. He raises a pair of binoculars to his optics and sees, yes, the little yellow minibot attempting to sneak up on their position.

Attempting is a too-accurate description. For some reason one of the best scouts on their team is completely failing at concealment.

Frowning, Sunstreaker lowers the binoculars. He stares out at the sand and grass. Jazz has command of the attacking forces today and that means instead of Bluestreak easily picking off hostiles and winning the day, the opposing team will probably have a rare victory and someone is about to magically appear behind him and hold a knife to his throat.

But Sunstreaker has command of Bluestreak.

That thought sticks in his processor for the rest of the exercise, his optics straying to the dark doors hiked high as Bluestreak sends round after round into their approaching enemies with an accuracy that's painful to witness.

They lose when Jazz and Mirage appear behind them and level guns at both their heads.

-o0o-

As well as scheduled team-training exercise the whole base is given a strict rota of personal training time as well. Prowl rules over their military operation with an iron fist and any slacking when it comes to battle readiness is liable to earn a sharp reprimand about the importance of being fit to hold the lines with their fellow Autobots and, if the commander is feeling particularly waspish, a spot on punishment detail.

The training hangar is second only to the rec room as a favourite social spot, ordered combat training or not. Off-duty Autobots routinely wander into the hangar, finding a seat on one of the benches supplied along the walls to chat, watch the on-shift mechs spar or - if they're feeling particularly productive that day - do a little extra training of their own.

Idling along the edge of the area reserved for sparring, Bluestreak should be seeking out Bumblebee, his scheduled sparring partner, but instead the flash of bright paint interrupts his cheery wave to the small scount and he finds himself stopping to watch Sunstreaker and Ironhide squaring off.

No stranger to battle, he is used to watching frontliners clash through the scope of his rifle and hardly inexperienced in hand-to-hand combat himself. Regardless, watching one of the most experienced troop commanders in the Autobot army face off against one of their most notorious fighter is a whole different level of awe-striking.

Ironhide was well known as a respected military officer before the war even started, veteran of countless battles before Megatron even began riling up rebellion. On the other hand Sunstreaker and his twin have no military background, but were superstars in their own right among gladiatorial circles; hard won champions of the underground bloodsport that was mech-on-mech combat. Military programmed and trained mechs may have an edge when it comes to tactics and working as a unit, but the Twins have raw, brutal survival instinct in their corner.

Glancing quickly around, Bluestreak notes that he's not the only one neglecting his training. Far off on the other side of the hangar, Smokescreen looks suspiciously like a mech accepting bets from the Bots clustered around.

Something in Sunstreaker changes when he fights. The aloof mask he so often wears falls away to reveal something feral and visceral beneath, striking in its honesty. Even in a friendly practice bout against an ally his beautiful faceplates are set in an ugly snarl as red and yellow circle, slow and wary, each taking their measure of the other.

Bluestreak can't take his optics off the yellow frame slinking close to the ground, centre of gravity low. Sunstreaker is a hulking figure, his bright plate faulting any attempt at camouflage and screaming a challenge for anyone to face him. On the battlefield someone so obvious would be an instant target and sniper's targeting software falls for the enticement, automatically tracking every shift of plate as the warrior moves. Warbuild modifications on top of gladiator's plating means there are few gaps and even fewer points of exposed vitals, but Bluestreak's optics can't help but try to seek them out.

As Sunstreaker steps forward there's a momentary flex of plate that opens a tiny seam on the outside of one knee. The twist of his black helm as he tracks a movement from Ironhide exposes the cabling of his neck. When he braces down the grapple, one leg pushed back, he opens himself to a shot at the seams of his groin.

His movements though are so fluid and quick that the tiny vulnerabilities are gone as soon as they register to Bluestreak's target lock.

Completely absorbed by the red and yellow tangle, optics targeting vulnerable spots at a mile a minute, Bluestreak fails to notice the breakout of a sudden bustle of movement as everyone immediately tries to look like mechs extremely busy in their appointed tasks and absolutely not like people who had been standing around gawping until just a few nanokliks ago, regardless of the fact that half of them aren't even on shift right now. Somewhere a voice registers, loudly and pointedly discussing the pros and cons of plasma rounds versus pellet shots

Still so deeply absorbed in the sparring match before him, Bluestreak's spark almost stops and his engine actually stalls when a hand claps down hard on his shoulder. With a startled yelp he jerks and turns so fast one of his doors smacks his assailant across the face.

Cool blue optics meet his and Prowl inclines his head in greeting, apparently unfazed by the dark scrapes of paint that trace across his cheek. Something in Bluestreak's chest plummets into his feet and tries to escape into the floor.

He squirms under that icy gaze, optics flicking guiltily to where Bumblebee stands at the opposite side of the arena, the little yellow scout staring over at the two Praxians with a look of abject horror on his faceplates. Despite being the same height, Bluestreak feels tiny under the Third in Command's scrutiny.

Prowl does not miss the sniper's flicker of attention. His helm turns slowly, pinning Bumblebee with a stare like a javelin. A single crook of one finger brings the scout hurrying to their side.

"Is there a problem with your sparring schedule?" Prowl asks lightly, as if asking about the weather or their opinions of the interior décor.

Feeling like two recruits at their first dressing-down, Bumblebee and Bluestreak exchange one petrified look and in their faces are a thousand excuses. Simultaneously they frantically shake their heads and Prowl's optics slide from them to the sparring match still being fought, both combatants happily unaware of the world outside of their bout. His gaze lingers for a moment and then snaps back to his subordinates, fast enough to make them both start.

"It is always good to take note of melee fighters' techniques," the black and white Praxian concedes gracefully, and Bluestreak and Bumblebee sag like marionettes whose strings have gone slack.

Hope blooms in Bluestreak's spark and he gabbles, seizing onto the graciously offered lifeline, "Yessir you see we saw-"

He is cut off again as Prowl gives him a pointed look and returns his attention to the wrestling match. Ironhide manages to pin Sunstreaker by the throat, one giant black hand wrapped around neck cabling in a suffocating grip, but with an impossibly fluid twist the yellow warrior kicks up, catching his commander in the side and sending him crashing to the floor. The sandy ground vibrates with the impact.

"We cannot simply rely on theory, however…." Prowl murmurs, half to himself as he begins to stroll towards the grappling duo.

Bluestreak's fragile and fluttering hope shatters as he follows the path of the black and white commander, but that finger curls again and draws both Bumblebee and he forward like leashed pets in his wake.

As he walks Prowl calls softly to the red and yellow mechs, his quiet tones somehow cutting through the chatter of bystanders and the clang of metal on metal. Two pairs of battle-bright optics turn to him and for a moment the tactician looks like a minibot facing down a pair of rabid cyberwolves.

The moment passes, Bluestreak's fuel pump hammering at almost top speed, and sanity seems to dawn in the warriors' optics. Sunstreaker grudgingly stops trying to break the struts in his commanding officer's arm and Ironhide gives up trying to peel off his subordinate's plating.

Prowl doesn't seem to notice, or care, about the burning intensity of the optics focussed on him. He gestures offhandedly to the sniper and scout at his back and addresses Ironhide pleasantly, as if asking about recreational plans for the evening,. "Bluestreak and Bumblebee are particularly interested in studying melee fighting today."

Ironhide folds his arms and meets the Prowl's cool gaze. There is a sense of unspoken agreement between the two officers that has cold dread curling though Bluestreak's frame. Two pairs of commanding optics turn to their disobedient subordinates.

"I do always say," Ironhide drawls in his lazy dialect, casting a critical look over the two mechs trying to cringe down behind Prowl's doors, "that we are in dire need'a more trainin' between frontline fighters and the rest a' the team."

Training between frontliners and everyone else had been vehemently voted against by "everyone else" after it had been discovered that Sunstreaker and Sideswipe didn't have much of an inclination to differentiate between a friendly spar and actual warfare. The two are no longer even allowed to wrestle each other without supervision and inhibitor claws after Ratchet had reported the sheer amount of resources it was costing him each time they came in for repairs.

Prowl's hand swings back, catching an unsuspecting Bumblebee by the shoulder and drawing the scout stumbling forward. The little mech's wheel's scrape furrows in the sand as his breaks automatically lock in response to the movement but Prowl is much stronger than he looks and Bumblebee almost half his size.

"A lesson in the practical applications of their closely monitored observations is an excellent idea," Prowl nods as he transfers the prisoner to Ironhide's much larger hands, no trace of humour in his tone. "I am sure Bumblebee will benefit hugely from a one-on-one training session with an experienced fighter."

Ironhide's grin to Prowl borders on too enthusiastic and with a hand clamped on a tiny yellow shoulder, he leads a frantically gabbling Bumblebee away. The jovial drawl explaining the aspects of various arm locks fades and Bluestreak yelps as a firm hand catches his arm and pulls him forward.

He looks away from his friend and into the brilliant blue optics and unreadable expression of Sunstreaker. Though the yellow warrior i only a few feet taller than himself, Bluestreak feels trapped between two giants, the white hand on his arm like an inhibitor claw and Prowl's presence looming at his back.

"I leave Bluestreak to your tender care," Prowl says flatly and Sunstreaker's optics flicker briefly to the commander. His mouth tightens a fraction and he gives a sharp, small nod.

The gentle crunch of receding footsteps sounds softly at Bluestreak's back and he is left looking into the displeased faceplates of Sunstreaker. Somewhere on the other side of the arena Bumblebee hits the floor with a plate-rattling clang, but Bluestreak is too busy stuffing panic down to the bottom of his fuel tanks to look.

He and Sunstreaker are friends, but that generally means very little in the field; the time Sunstreaker and Sideswipe had gone for a friendly practice session and ended up in Ratchet's care for limb reattachments was an example that was pushing its way to the forefront of his mind

The big yellow warrior is still watching him with considering optics, but when Bluestreak huffs a hot ex-vent Sunstreaker takes a few steps back, clearing several lengths between them. With a fluidity that belies his heavy plate, he drops into a ready stance and once again sniper's optics can't help but pick out the places where armour moves apart slightly to allow for the shift in movement. Once again the vulnerabilities are tiny: Sunstreaker is obviously well aware of the week points in his frame and compensates with his body positioning and arms.

The handsome helm tilts, light flashing off a large fin, and a flicker of confusion passes over perfectly sculpted faceplates.

"Are you ready?" Sunstreaker asks with a raised optic ridge.

Realising he is staring Bluestreak hurriedly drops into his own ready position, feet spread and arms up. His targeting software pounds away in his helm, feeding angles and distances and calculations readings into his processor fast enough to make his vision spin.

It's hard not to be intimidated. Every inch of Sunstreaker's demeanour screams predator. His expression, once again blank but optics tracking each tiny movement of Bluestreak's frame, does nothing to soothe the sniper's nerves.

Before he can speculate further, though, Sunstreaker is moving. Two long, fast strides bring him into Bluestreak's range and a perfectly polished leg swings out and around to ram into the back of his knee.

Those sky blue optics brighten in surprise when Bluestreak jumps straight up and over the singing leg but Sunstreaker isn't thrown for long. A yellow hand catches his shoulder as he lands and throws him off balance, and as he stumbles that leg swings and succeeds in slamming into him this time and sending him crashing to the floor.

Rather than bearing down on him, Sunstreaker steps back and resumes his stance again.

Fully prepared to take a pummelling, Bluestreak pushes up to his feet again and rotates his shoulders, eyeing his partner with uncertainty. Sunstreaker waits patiently for hm to finish shuffling and fluttering his doors before casting a critical eye over Bluestreak's stance.

Bumblebee hits the sand again.

"Are you ready?" is repeated in that quiet tone and Bluestreak nods.

Rather than close the distance and attack again though, Sunstreaker shakes his helm and points to the sniper's back foot. A sharp jerk of the finger has Bluestreak making a minor adjustment to the offending foot and before he has time to look up Sunstreaker is moving again.

A yellow flicker on his peripheral vision is Bluestreak's only warning and his helm snaps up. Frantically he dodges, dropping one shoulder and taking scrambling steps back to avoid a snatching hand, the arm extending past him seemingly in slow motion. His targeting software pings and he follows the command, thrusting his fingers into a tiny gap between plates in the inner elbow. He jerks his fingers in a cruel twist.

Sunstreaker grunts at the tweaked cables and bears his denta but yanks his arm away, Bluestreak's fingers scraping chips from perfect plate in the process. His hand closes around Bluestreak's still-extended wrist and with a wrench the sniper is pulled forward, their chestplates clanging together. They're almost optic level with one another, Bluestreak's arm twisted in a strut-wrenchingly painful position that has him gritting his own denta in an imitation of Sunstreaker's own grimace.

With an almost apologetic turn of his lips, Sunstreaker yanks, pushing forward at the same time, and with a yelp of pain Bluestreak crashes to the floor again.

Lights and sounds drift in and out of focus, nothing quite making sense. Restarting his optics to clear the static, Bluestreak stares up at the bright lights set into the hangar's ceiling with a ringing buzz in his audials and pain twinging down his arm and straight into his fingers. He allows himself a small groan

Vibrant yellow appears in his hazy field of vision, and a hand extends downward to offer assistance.

A/N: Sunstreaker offering Blue a hand up is basically a marriage proposal, right?